I woke the next morning to a ward where the walls and mosquito nets had been ravaged by bullets. The medics and my roommates filled in the missing details.
‘Don’t you remember what you did to that Madurese fella last night?’ one medic asked me.
‘Well? What?’
‘First thing we saw was that crazy Madurese charging into our ward, gun blazing,’ said the medic. ‘I was treating a fellow solider at the time. Jan, in the corner over there, couldn’t get out of bed. The bullets ripped through his mosquito net and missed his belly by an inch. Poor lad was scared witless, couldn’t move a muscle. Then you came storming in, jumped the Madurese from behind and wrestled him to the ground. You kicked his rifle away, grabbed your M1 and the two of you proceeded to knock lumps out of each other. Luckily you had the sense not to blow each other’s brains out. Oh yes, and you jammed your bayonet on your rifle. It left an almighty gash in his belly and his guts came spewing out. Then another soldier whacked him with the butt of his rifle. You collapsed and your mates laid you on your bed, while the Madurese was carted off to the operating table. Dr Verbeek happened to be around that night and saved his life by operating straight away. His condition is stable. You can go next door and visit him if you like.’
I looked around in disbelief but the others all nodded in confirmation. That same morning I went to see my victim and was shocked to see his whole torso bandaged up. In halting Madurese I offered him my apologies. The poor bastard was unable to eat for days, that’s how badly I had carved him up in my feverish delirium.
At last the day arrived when I was declared fit for discharge. Heaving a sigh of relief, I returned to the ward to pack my things while the nursing officer on duty called SHQ and asked them to send a jeep. After saying a heartfelt farewell to my fellow patients and the Madurese soldiers, I loaded my pack onto the jeep and was driven back to SHQ. From there I was given a lift on a supply truck back to the post in Senduro.
*
Following another few days with the detachment, Sergeant Gio Montagne called me in for a chat. ‘Nolan,’ he said ‘the whole region is secure once again. People are returning to their normal lives and there is not a single pelopor for miles around. Tomorrow you will be transferred to GHQ in Surabaya. Piet Dikotta is in sore need of your assistance. There is more important work to be done. Preparations are under way for a second police action. Go to it, Nolan, and on behalf of us all, many thanks.’
A truck rolled up the next morning and gave me a lift to Surabaya. In my absence, the General Headquarters of the Marine Brigade Security Service had moved from Porongstraat to Karang Menjangan, a short distance from the navy hospital.
I arrived late in the afternoon and was greeted by Captain Galliër of the Marine Corps, the successor to Rob Groeneveld. I snapped to attention and saluted. Captain Galliër was a humourless man, small in stature. After informing the captain of the salient events in Lumajang, I saluted once more and headed for Piet Dikotta’s office. He was pleased to see me again. ‘So, Arto,’ he said, ‘you look peaky. How long were you banged up in that sick bay?’
‘Over three and a half weeks, Piet,’ I answered wearily.
Dikotta offered me a seat and poured me a whisky. ‘As you may have heard from Sergeant Gio Montagne, I asked for your return and ordered him to pull you back from the front. Listen, Arto, you have seen enough combat. You are sorely needed here as head of Prisoner Interrogations, Department III. But I also want you taking care of counterintelligence for me, as head of Espionage and Documentation, Department IV. Your field of operations will be Surabaya and the surrounding area as far as Sidoarjo and Porong. I want you out there with the men on regular raid patrols. You know the score. Your office will be next door to mine and you can set up your camp bed there. When things are slack you can sleep at home, as long as you are ready to be dragged out of bed at a moment’s notice. You can go through all the counterintelligence reports here in my office as usual: I need you to keep abreast of developments with a view to interrogating the various categories of prisoners.’
I eyed Dikotta suspiciously. ‘There’s more to this, Piet. Why did you recall me from the front? Come on, out with it!’
‘Fair enough, Arto,’ Piet sighed. ‘Only don’t fly off the handle, okay? While you were in the sick bay, Sergeant Gio Montagne reported you for using excessive force out there in Senduro and lodged a complaint with me. I took the decision to reel you back in. Meanwhile Sergeant Gio Montagne has been nominated for the Military Order of William, Knight 4th Class, primarily for ridding the Senduro area of extremist elements.’
‘What a fucking nerve!’ I shouted. ‘I do all the dirty work and that bastard Gio walks off with the honours!
‘Easy, Arto. Calm down,’ Piet said in an attempt to placate me. ‘Remember that courage and honour always win out in the end.’
‘Say what you like, Piet,’ I yelled. ‘This kind of filthy trick makes me sick to my stomach!’
I leapt to my feet and stormed out.
Transport pack on my shoulder, I took possession of my new office. I unfolded my camp bed among the metal filing cabinets, set up the bamboo frame and camouflage mosquito net, then rearranged things so I had a place to sleep in one corner and a work space with interrogation room in the other.
Counterintelligence
Royal birthdays were usually cause for wild celebration in the Indies. Surabaya could be hell on those public holidays, so I tried to make sure I spent them out in the field. But on 31 August 1948, there was no escape.
Piet Dikotta had called me in to see him the previous evening. ‘Arto, tomorrow is Queen Wilhelmina’s birthday and there are festivities throughout the city. A military parade will roll down Palmenlaan and Simpang, cross Tunjungan to Pasar Besar and go on from there. I want you out on the streets tomorrow, unarmed and in your civvies. Mingle with the crowds, especially along the route, listen in on what people are saying. You know who is worth listening to and you have an eye for picking out infiltrators among the locals. Blend in and remember: no force of any kind! Resort to violence only if you are attacked or your life is threatened. And leave the ladies well alone! Report your findings to me tomorrow evening. Good luck, Arto.’
*
Why me? Most of the other interpreters were given leave on public holidays, especially those who were married. If something special needed doing, it was always down to this sucker. If the brigade commander needed a bodyguard on a tour of nearly every frontline post, yours truly was pick of the bunch. I could be off on some remote posting, and still they would find a way to rope me in. Who else would get landed with a counterintelligence assignment on a public holiday? The job was not without its dangers and my only weapon would be my trusty fighting knife.
I set off straight after breakfast dressed in my civvies, a brightly coloured shirt hanging loose over white trousers to conceal the knife on my belt. Hiring a becak, I took in all the pasars and mixed with the crowd, spotting countless spies and infiltrators among the local Indonesians. I strolled among them as nonchalantly as I could, and eavesdropped on their chatter. If I suspected someone of being an Indonesian spy, I struck up a conversation and soon came to the unsurprising conclusion that most had a deep hatred of the Dutch. They wanted Merdeka at any cost. These encounters left me feeling uneasy. One or two let details of sabotage plans slip and, when I felt I had enough information, I went in search of a radio car belonging to our Military Police. If I was unable to find one, I walked into a shop or a pharmacy and asked to use the phone. I called GHQ and spoke to Piet Dikotta, who would arrange for one or two senior officers to meet me at a rendezvous point within forty minutes so that I could pass on my findings. On and on it went, and the Queen’s birthday dragged deep into the night.
*
As the Second Police Action approached, every department at GHQ went into overdrive. Long lists of names appeared on the bulletin board, complete with unit and mission, so that everyone knew what part they were going to play. I searched eagerly
for my name on the lists of men assigned to the landing at Glondong but found it nowhere. Deeply disappointed, I strode into Piet Dikotta’s office. ‘Hey, Piet, why isn’t my name on that list?’ I asked. ‘I want to be part of the landing at Glondong. Can’t you review your decision?’
‘No, Arto,’ he said resolutely. ‘Like I said before: I need you here. Aren’t you tired of fighting yet, man? You’ve seen enough action and your back is already halfway to hell. Do you want to end up an invalid? Now come on, help me sort out the admin and let’s make sure the lads who are being deployed receive their instructions. A number of interpreters will be placed under your command. They will interrogate all prisoners and send them to Werfstraat Prison. It will be your job to instruct them and supervise their counterintelligence work. Before long I want you all to form raid patrols in the city. It’s no mean feat keeping Surabaya free of subversive elements, Arto. There is danger enough right here. Now get to work.’
The mood at HQ wiped the smile off everyone’s face. Even my best friends among the interpreters looked troubled. Weaponry had become a major focus of attention. Between the First and the Second Police Actions, many battle-hardened volunteer marines had returned home to be replaced by conscripts with no experience at all. You could recognize them by their uniforms. The word Nederland was sewn into their badges, while ours said Netherlands. Our dress uniforms looked American, while the rookies wore British-style suits.
The ranks of the Marine Brigade Security Service were also home to plenty of barus. As Indos with experience of jungle operations, it was up to us to teach them the combat tactics they were going to need and familiarize them with native customs and traditions. The transition to local food always gave the Dutch a bad case of the trots but the skin diseases were even more of an ordeal. Those new boys were used to the strictest hygiene back in Holland but, unfortunately for them, the Indies was a different matter. Typhus and malaria were also rife. Even I fell prey to the curse of malaria from time to time, despite taking plenty of Atabrine tablets.
I got to know a marine from Limburg, who was on guard duty at the Brigade Staff. Piet was his name, and he was all skin and bones. The doctors at the naval hospital had all but given up on him due to his recurring problems with malaria tropica, the most dangerous strain of the disease. He had been given permission to sail for home but, having developed a fondness for the country and the people, he refused.
‘Hey, Intel Marine,’ he addressed me, ‘you’re a native of this country, aren’t you? I’ve been suffering from malaria tropica for a while, or so the docs at the naval hospital tell me. They’ve been shoving Atabrine tablets down my throat and alternating them with quinine, but it hasn’t helped. They’ve even put me on light duties, which is why I’m here standing guard and bored out of my skull. You wouldn’t know some medicine man or hocus-pocus guy who might be able to cure me, would you?’
‘I think I can help you,’ I said, ‘but you mustn’t get ahead of yourself. Let’s ask permission from your doctor first or you could end up slapped with a court martial.’
‘I don’t give a toss about that bastard,’ was his frank reply.
‘When do you get off duty?’
‘This afternoon, at four.’
‘Right then, Piet. I will meet you at four and take you to see my mother. She has cured me of that damned malaria often enough, so she should be able to do the same for you.’
I met Limburg Piet by the Big Shit at four and we took a becak to my house. Mama looked surprised to see me in the company of a blond Dutchman. I introduced Piet and explained the problem, mixing Dutch with her potpourri of Malay, Javanese and Chinese. Wasting no time, she sent Babu Tenie to cut some leaves from the papaya tree and pound them to a paste in a cast steel bowl. The babu then pressed the moisture from the crushed leaves into a glass and added salt. She stirred the dark-green liquid and handed the glass to Mama, who passed it to Piet and told him to drink. With all the bravura he could muster, Piet took the glass from Mama and swallowed down the contents. He pulled one of the ugliest faces I ever saw.
‘Fuck’s sake, Nolan,’ he said. ‘That mother of yours is out to poison me.’
I burst out laughing. ‘You have to repeat this treatment two or three times a day here at my house,’ I explained. ‘In a matter of days, I swear you will be completely cured of malaria. It’s filthy stuff, I know – I have trouble choking it down myself sometimes – but it’s better than all those bloody tablets put together.’
Piet did as he was told. He visited Mama two or three times a day and drank the dark-green juice. By the fourth day, he was already feeling better. To be sure, he had his blood checked at the sick bay and they found that the malaria parasites in his blood had decreased considerably. He began to get his appetite back. Feeling like a new man, he went back to see Mama and thanked her profusely. The colour had returned to his pale cheeks.
‘Fuck me, Nolan! Your mother’s only gone and cured me of fucking malaria! I’m fit as a fucking fiddle and back on regular duties. The doctor couldn’t believe his eyes, just mumbled some crap about native herbs sometimes being better than all our chemicals put together. Fucking hell, Nolan, I’m happy as fuck and so fucking grateful to you and your mother. Come on, let’s fuck off down the fucking Marines Club and get drunk as a fucking skunk.’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘I am going to take you to the best Chinese restaurant in the city.’
*
On 18 December 1948, I waved off Piet and the others at the forecourt of Marine Brigade Security Service headquarters. They climbed aboard the trucks with their transport packs and left me behind feeling rotten. I hated each and every one of those commanding officers for not letting me be part of the operation.
I felt a hand on my left shoulder and turned to look Piet Dikotta straight in the eye.
‘Come on, Arto,’ he said. ‘Back to work.’
That same evening I had to go into the city on raid patrol. We made dozens of arrests and worked deep into the night. I hardly got a wink of sleep before it was time for the team to interrogate our suspects. Some I released under the motto ‘it takes a thief to catch a thief’. The days that followed were exhausting; my body was crying out for sleep. We were on duty all day, every day, and every last one of us was complaining. Going through the daily combat intelligence reports, I saw that we were suffering heavy losses on all fronts. Far too much time had elapsed between the First and Second Police Actions, of course, and the Indonesian forces had used this lull to their advantage. First, they had built up their arsenal with smuggled weapons. Second, they had watched and learned from our combat techniques. Third, it had given other Indonesian units ample opportunity to plant mines and block access roads to their strongholds. Fourth, the enemy were able to spring ambushes wherever they wanted. And to cap it all, we were going into battle with far too many inexperienced boys from Holland in our ranks.
One-man war
Meanwhile, I was engaged in one dangerous counterintelligence assignment after another. At the barracks, I could come and go as I pleased and even spend the odd night at home with Mama. Whether I was out in combat uniform or civvies, I was always well-armed. At this time there was a rise in the number of infiltrators, as more members of the Indonesian Army were tasked with guerrilla activities aimed at disrupting life in Surabaya. Sabotage was among their objectives. My main job was to identify and shadow these infiltrators, then alert our standby raid teams and direct them towards the enemy with a view to capturing or eliminating them. This struck me as a roundabout way of doing things, but those were my orders.
One evening, I was patrolling the market in the notorious Pacar Keling neighbourhood. I was in my civvies and armed with only a small, flat FN pistol, no great shakes as a weapon. I was sitting at a stall eating soto Madura when three Indonesian soldiers sat down at my table. We greeted one another and they ordered soto too. I recognized one of them instantly from a composite photo: Lieutenant Colonel Djarot Soebiantoro, commander of the Indonesian Arm
y’s notorious 113 Battalion. As a marine, I knew all too well that his soldiers were a tough nut to crack. We slurped our soto and struck up a conversation. My trigger finger was itching to blow the three of them away but, under orders to avoid bloodshed unless absolutely necessary, I sat there powerless in the face of adversaries who had the lives of so many marines on their consciences. Seething with rage and hatred, I resigned myself to being an effective spy and gleaning as much information as I could from those three, which to some extent I managed.
I reported back to Piet Dikotta that same night; he was still hard at work in the staff office. The raid team was alerted immediately and set off for Pacar Keling, with me as their guide. One of the three men had been foolish enough to visit a local prostitute and it was not difficult for me to trace him and have him arrested. Under interrogation, we discovered that the Indonesian Army was planning sabotage and guerrilla attacks on military and police barracks.
*
The next evening I ran into my brother Karel. I was on patrol in Kapasan district, wearing my utility uniform and armed with a Colt .45 pistol. My knife was tucked into my right legging. At this time, Karel was a senior police officer in charge of maintaining law and order in Kapasan. We went to a Chinese stall for something to eat. ‘Look over there, Bro,’ he said out of nowhere. ‘Those Javanese beauties in the corner have been giving us the eye.’
‘Let them,’ I replied. ‘If they want anything from me they can come and get it. I have other things on my mind, military secrets I cannot share with you.’
No sooner had I spoken than, to my surprise, one of Karel’s beauties got up and made her way over to our table. With the sweetest of smiles, she very politely invited us to come and join them. Feeling apprehensive, I tried to catch Karel’s eye, but his brain was already addled by the womanly charms on display and, before I knew it, he was trotting along behind her, meek as a lamb. I followed him to their table. Karel did not waste a second and was soon flirting like mad with two of those Javanese beauties. Even as a boy, my brother had been girl crazy and fancied himself as a regular Don Juan.
The Interpreter from Java Page 38
